


Тоска

by fvartoxin



Category: Batman (Comics), Holy Musical B@man - Team StarKid
Genre: Especially since my interp of Basil usually never shuts up., If only because my Clayface is unironically a devout Catholic., Implied masturbation BUT it's an Eldritch Horror so is this really explicit? No., Mentions of religion, No dialogue because I thought it would be a fun challenge., Other, Spot the reference to ANOTHER Starkid property!, This is another one of those old works - from this August this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26742151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fvartoxin/pseuds/fvartoxin
Summary: It's a shame you can't die with regrets when you're immortal. Wait. Scratch that. Rather, it's more of a shame that you can't die. Oblivion, and the cessation of thought that comes with, would almost be preferable.
Kudos: 1





	Тоска

_Тоска | Noun. /ˈtō-skə/ - One of many “technically untranslatable” words from another language, its closest English counterpart is something akin to “yearning, anguish” or “deep dissatisfaction”._

There were decidedly worse places to be on a bitterly cold evening than in one of the many abandoned, derelict buildings that were scattered around this trash fire of a city. 

Actually – _if_ he desired to be more precise – it was an abandoned factory of some sort, having long since been left to rot by both businessman and hideout-seeking villain alike. Which was somewhat surprising, actually. Perhaps it was too decrepit for the latter’s tastes? Whatever. Mulling over such things wasn’t what he’d come here for, not in the least. And if the evidence that he had sprawled out on the dusty floor wasn’t indicative enough, then Gotham’s own Basil Karlo simply did not know, nor did he care what to tell you regarding the matter. Besides, he was a tad busy being near-catatonic at the moment. Tendrils wrought from his own goopy flesh probed at what nerve endings in his body hadn’t been completely deadened yet, at first hesitantly then plunging deeper, _far deeper_. Even the occasional dull throb of pain was appreciated more than a world of numbness.

Pleasure of certain natures had been hard enough to come by when he was still recognizably human. Chalk that up to the poor blood circulation afforded by natural gigantism. At least on some days everything hadn’t been numb; the mere act of _walking_ had been little trouble, even. Shame, however, was something he’d been all too familiar with in the time before. Even blinded now, he hid. Of course, that wouldn’t change the fact that he was absolutely going to Hell according to the doctrine of his own faith, but at a time other than this he’d liked to have imagined that any God would have cared more about the years of covered-up murders than his fantasizing about and bedding other men. If He’d had an objection to the latter, then He was quite welcome to fight a man who knew damn well he was higher than God. If war was wanted, then war he’d bring. Bloodsport was at the very minimum entertaining.

Yet of all the functionally nameless, near-faceless sacks of meat that the former actor had graced with his presence over the decades (for what was a human body but fragile flesh, nerve endings, bone, and a bit of gray matter, really?), in a manner one continuously eluded him. Not that he faulted the owner of such a fine physical form. Not that he _could_. Dr. Victor Fries always had been an exception to what had been considered normal. In some way, Basil supposed the universe had marked his dearest friend and confidant. In some way, that had only spelled pain for everyone involved in the unfortunate man’s life. Evidently, his wife most of all; although that wasn’t something which either metahuman particularly enjoyed thinking about in any capacity. The subject of Nora Fries’s condition had been a complicated matter for decades now, one that seemed to bring little with it other than sleepless nights and pain. How unsurprising. 

How funny, in a dark manner. How cruel, in tandem. After just about seven entire decades on this planet, he’d experienced love for the first time. Not that he’d known what had been in store for him – for them both, truthfully— not _then_ anyway. Easily half a century had gone by since that day, but the sight of those unnaturally blue eyes was eternally burned into, well, whatever he had now which passed for a soul. Basil himself would admit he was shallower than a pond on a good day, but even he recognized there something _more_ to Victor than just demonstrable intelligence. A not-insignificant part of him would have loved nothing other than to rip the cryogeneticist’s underclothes off, wrap him in an embrace that would have killed if maintained for too long. 

Glorious. 

Momentarily his grasp on that train of thought slipped, and a tremor ran through his massive frame. Clay-like flesh heaved, _twisted_ in agony like something out of a Cronenberg film. It would have been so _easy_ , had it not been Victor. 

In this barely-human form especially? Were it not for his (perhaps unfortunate) habit of casually suffocating others to death when they got too uppity with him, he could have had anything. Any _one_ , just about. If groupies of the past were any indication, people would shell out a significant amount of money to even breathe the same air as a celebrity for a few minutes. Whether that be a different celebrity masquerading as their desired individual or otherwise. Shapeshifting did indeed have perks. 

So be it that the object of his affections was a happily married man. So be it that even he recognized that it would have been a crass move to insert himself into such a situation as anything more than a close friend; while some men did indeed fit the usual gay stereotypes for whatever reason, he took a kind of pride in not doing so. Not that it mattered, in the long run. So here he was, then. Lovesick as some Disney movie depiction of a teenager and just about comatose on a filthy stone floor, his clouded eyes staring at nothing. On the bright side, though Victor periodically worried himself half to death over him and his tendencies, he wasn’t here to witness such an ordeal. It would have been too much of an embarrassment for both parties; though the latter moreso. 

Every cloud _did_ have a silver lining, after all. And for that, he was more than grateful. But on the rare occasion the world did not bow to him, he’d make it do so. For the most part, anyway. If he could not move mountains, could not bend Heaven, could not _align the damn cosmos_ just to see a treasured companion and his wife have some semblance of stability once again — well, then he’d just have to raise Hell. Simple as that. Maybe this would end up being the one thing that killed him. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad way to go out. 

Perhaps he _had_ changed; that alone was revealing an awful lot. Time to never admit that to a therapist…provided Arkham Asylum even allowed him one again. Killing people didn’t exactly make them like you; it just made them dead. Satisfying? Yes. Mildly inconvenient, depending on your plans? Also yes.

No point in thinking of that further. At least, not now. So it was shoved down, and cleanly buried.


End file.
